Still Warm Ashes
by Clover64
Summary: Some people are meant to be in your life, for better or worse. Two years after the events of Kirkwall, Sebastian believes that chapter of his life closed - until a woman from his past resurfaces seeking refuge and forgiveness. Sebastian/F!Hawke.
1. Part One

_A/N:_ Set post-game, this takes place roughly two years after the events of Kirkwall. Major spoilers for endgame sprinkled throughout. As it stands, I have two chapters written out for this, but it could prove longer in the future.

- . - . -

It begins with a letter, privately delivered by a footman whose name Sebastian does not know. He has lived in Starkhaven, ruling as its rightful Prince, for time enough now and has taken care to learn the names of his servants. This man is not one of his own, made even more apparent by his lack of dress and rank smell. A lackey then, likely hired for discretion or anonymity. His nobles do love their court intrigues, although he cannot for the life of him understand the appeal. Once upon a time, his younger self might have delighted in the sport of it. But that boy is gone now, buried beneath chantry rubble.

He takes a breath, clearing his head of fire and debris. With his curiosity piqued, he breaks the wax seal, still warm to the touch. The handwriting is agitated, as if scrawled in haste, uncertain, with words scratched out and ink bleeding from the punctuation. It is familiar in its way – he deciphers desperation in the way it's been folded and unfolded, again and again. Someone agonized over this. Sebastian has received countless petitions for one thing or the other, but this feels different. Odd.

_Sebastian,_

_Please meet me in the chantry. Midnight tonight. _

_Come alone. I'll be waiting for you._

His eyes scan to the bottom, then narrow. It is signed, an old friend. Many claimed to be just that when he took the throne, only to later expose themselves as self-serving opportunists. A crown, as it turns out, makes fewer friends than it does enemies. Experience continues to teach him this the hard way. Even now, Sebastian can feel himself losing grip of what is considered a fool notion by most everyone else: that the goodness of man will prevail against his sinful nature, despite all evidence to the contrary.

Idly, the Prince of Starkhaven wonders how many betrayals it will take until wisdom replaces his optimism.

Who then is this so-called friend of his? Who will not give their name, and who calls him by his given? He knows that if he brings this to his advisors, they will think it a trap. It would not be the first attempt on his life. They would forbid him from going, as if that would prevent him.

There is no point dithering. His mind is already made up. He holds the letter over one of the lit candles, letting it burn. Then discarding its charred remnants into the hearth, he grabs his bow and flings it over his shoulder.

Elthina always called him impetuous. He wishes he could tell her she was right.

- . - . -

The chantry is dark except for the hypnotic flame that burns day and night in Andraste's outstretched palm. Sebastian pauses before her golden likeness, admiring its soft glow.

"I wasn't sure you'd come."

He tenses at the voice, that voice. Sometimes he dreams of her, and she sounds exactly the same. A part of him doesn't want to turn around, as if doing so will only confirm his suspicions that none of this is real and dispel the fantasy. But he does turn around, eventually, because he has to see her with his own eyes to believe that she still exists, that she's here. Sebastian's faith does not extend to the Champion of Kirkwall. Not anymore.

"Hawke," he says and the name sours in his mouth. He thought he had gotten past all of this. Apparently not.

She melts from the shadow of a massive, ornate pillar and steps into view. The effect is dizzying. He almost doesn't recognize her. She's not wearing armor, and her dark hair is longer than he remembers. It hides the marks, but not entirely. There are several well-pronounced cuts and bruises on her face, and he imagines more elsewhere. Her bottom lip is split, swollen. She tries for a smile, but it can't quite reach her eyes. Those bright grey eyes that had once laughed and teased, and later accused him of heartlessness. They are dimmed now; the light is gone. It is a terrible thing to watch a warrior go to war, but far more terrible to witness their homecoming.

She stands before him, dirty, tired, and completely defeated. "Hello, Sebastian."

He represses the urge to go to her, to care for her. It's obvious no one else has in a long time.

"What are you doing here, Hawke?"

"I was in the neighborhood," she says lightly. It's the tone she takes when she doesn't want to divulge the truth – for whatever reason. Like when she tried to talk him into distracting the Grand Cleric. She made a joke of it then, something about his inability to talk to women. Even older women. The memory provokes him.

"I did not come here to play games," he says and starts for the door.

"Wait!" She catches him by the arm as he passes by her in the aisle. "Sebastian," she says, so quiet he can barely hear the words. "I need your help."

The way her voice catches at the end unmans him. "I . . . do not think the Maker would look kindly on me for turning away one of his children in an hour of need, not before his Bride's gaze. I will listen, but I cannot promise you more than that."

She nods and releases him, slowly. He hears her tale of the conflict between the mages and the Chantry. It is one he is familiar with. It is impossible not to have heard the news, whispers of persecution for all who will not bend the knee. A holy war in everything but name. The Prince's province has been mercifully kept from bloodshed thus far, by sheer luck alone. The Circle in Starkhaven had burned down some time before the events of Kirkwall. There were no mages to rebel here and bring the wrath of the Templars down upon them.

"Everything has gotten lost in the telling," she explains, appearing equal parts confused and frustrated. "Even Varric seems helpless to set the record straight. Both sides are blaming me for the conflict. I'm not only the scapegoat, Sebastian; I'm to be the sacrificial lamb."

"You are not innocent in all of this, Hawke," he reminds her, a bit more harshly than he intends to.

"I know that," she bites back, showing some of the fire he remembers. "Don't you think I know that?"

"I have never been privy to your thoughts or confidences."

A lie, and she calls him on it. "You were once."

There was a time when she would have come to him, late at night, in the chantry. Some nights, it was to seek absolution for something that weighed on her conscience. She often made such a show of strength in public, that it was initially difficult for him to witness her private struggles. Like watching an impervious shield melted down for scrap metal. Other nights, she would rage about the injustice of it all – the Templars, blood mages, her family's death. Kirkwall seemed not a home to her, but a personal purgatory. She would be fury and vengeance and he would cool her temper with a reassuring word or gesture.

"That was a long time ago," he says.

"Yes," she agrees sadly. "It seems like another life now. Like it happened to someone else entirely."

He knows the feeling. For the first few months after he left her on the steps in Lowtown, threatening a righteous reckoning, he would wake up in the middle of the night and for a few moments forget where he was, what had happened. He would imagine the warm walls of the Kirkwall chantry around him, the wafting scent of the incense. Then everything would snap back into focus, reality brought into sharp relief. Sometimes, it would make him sick. He hasn't forgotten.

"It did not."

"I wish it had." The sorrow in her expression deepens the lines in her face, making her seem older than she is. It stirs his heart to pity, begs his mercy, and he denies himself from going to her a second time.

She smiles like a bitter widow who knows all that she has lost, and then takes a seat in one of the pews. He continues to stand. Sitting beside her will invite a sympathy that he's not ready for. Maker forgive him, because he was not ready to forgive her.

"They're hunting me." Her appearance suddenly makes sense. She's been on the run for her life. Alone?

"Who?"

"The Seekers. The Templars. The Resolutionists. Take your pick."

"And you've come here for, what, protection?"

Her confidence wavers, but she meets his gaze. "Yes," and then hurries to add, "I didn't want to involve you, but . . . There's no one else, Sebastian. No one I can turn to, no one else I can trust. And I can't keep running." She runs a hand across her forehead, as if trying to head off a headache. Even at her worst, he has never seen her looking so . . . worn down. "Maker, I am so sick of running."

Sebastian feels uneasy in the light of her words. Her weary honesty tears at his resolve. He is not heartless, and he has never been able to hate her. Now is no exception.

"I know I have no right to ask this of you. I know we didn't part on good terms –"

"That's putting it lightly," he interrupts. "You let a murderer go free. You let Elthina's killer go unpunished."

A hardness enters her eyes. "I spared the man I loved. Isn't that what the Chantry teaches us? To temper justice with mercy?"

He bristles at her argument. "Do not hide behind scripture. You have no right."

"Maybe not." She runs her hands against the gilded wood of the pew, not looking at him. "I won't pretend it wasn't selfish. You might be able to turn off your emotions at a moment's notice, Sebastian, but I am not you."

If she had smacked him, it might have hurt less. "I wasn't aware you had such a low opinion of me, Hawke." This seems to give her pause. It would have been the perfect note to end on. He wants to leave, wants to go back to bed and pretend none of this has happened, but his feet won't carry him to the door.

She stands, although it clearly pains her to, and approaches him tentatively. "You weren't the only one who suffered betrayal that day, Sebastian," she tells him.

"So I am in the wrong now, am I?"

"That's not what I'm saying."

"No?"

"_No_!"

They are in one another's faces now, yelling. His anger is obscuring reason, he knows but doesn't care. What it's really doing is masking the pain. Because she's right. Sebastian knows she's right. They all made choices that day. They all made mistakes. Good people died. Good friendships were destroyed. It is amazing to him how much power a single moment can have.

Her signature flashes in his mind. _An old friend_. It's like a splash of cold water to his face, and he steps back.

"I shouldn't have come," she says, at last. "It was a mistake to think . . ." Her voice trails off, leaving him wondering how she would have ended that sentence. "Just forget I was ever here."

She reaches the door before he can regain himself.

"You can't leave," he says lamely.

The Champion of Kirkwall does not even turn around. "What, will you arrest me? Throw me to the wolves? It's what I deserve, don't you think?"

His jaw feels tight, and it's a fight to get out the words. "Let the Maker sit in judgment of you, Priscila." He rubs his forehead, and ventures a small smile that she does not see. "I am tired of the charge."

They stand in tense silence, where all their faults are felt keenly.

Then, he asks her, "Have you eaten anything?"

She looks over her shoulder at him.

"What?"

"I can have the cook fix you up something . . ."

"You have a cook now," she says with a barely perceptible smirk. The old days are in her voice, although he knows that things will never be the same again.

"I have a cook now," he says. "There had to be some perks to this job."

"What does this mean?"

"The cook?"

"The food," she clarifies.

Sebastian knows what she's asking, just as he knows that he has given in. "I can put you up in one of the servant's rooms. It's no estate, but you will have clean clothes and a place to sleep. Anything more than that would draw suspicion."

He watches her expression closely, and sees nothing but relief. "Thank you . . . doesn't seem adequate."

"I will send for someone to . . . tend to you," he tells her, glancing at her wounds. She nods, looking a little embarrassed by her broken state. He starts for the exit.

"Can we talk?" she asks, stopping him with quiet hope in those grey eyes. "Later?"

"Later," he agrees softly. Sebastian doesn't know what he's agreeing to, or what this will lead to. With Hawke, he can never tell what he's getting. But a strange sense of peace settles on him, and it is enough to convince him that he has made the right decision, for now.


	2. Part Two

Sebastian is in the middle of his noonday prayers when he hears the door open and close behind him, without introduction. There is only one person crafty enough to sneak around his seneschal, and impertinent enough to dare. He turns from the miniature statue of Andraste to face the intruder.

"You could have been an assassin in another life, Ennis," he says with a broad smile.

"Bite your tongue, Sebastian," she replies, clucking at him in her old, familiar way. "That's no way to be talking to a lady."

"That's funny. I don't remember giving you a title."

Ennis scoffs at his teasing. "A real lady has no need of earthly titles." She rearranges some of the pleats in her skirt without looking down. "Although, a little acknowledgement from time to time never hurts."

Her lips remain in a stiff, regal line although he can tell that she is fighting a smile. Sebastian momentarily reflects on his good fortune – something that seems in short supply these days. Having such an honest woman in his life right now, particularly at such a vulnerable time when he can trust very few others, can only be the result of the Maker's hand at work. Ennis is not who one might expect in the employ of a prince, but it is for that very reason that Sebastian prizes her service above the rest. She may be getting up there in years, but for all that time Starkhaven has been her home, the Vaels her lords, and that is where her loyalties lie. Of that, he has never doubted.

Without needing to be asked, he takes her gently by the elbow and helps guide her to a seat in front of his desk.

Today she does not complain about the aid, and he cannot help but find it odd. Ever since she lost her sight, long before his return so she tells him, Ennis has insisted on getting around on her own power. She's quite good at it, too, he has noticed. That has never stopped him from offering to make things easier for her, but most days he has received the same response. It's always: _You needn't coddle me, Sebastian_ and _My eyes may be blind, but my legs work well enough _and _I can manage on my own just fine, thank you very much_.

But as she looks toward the window, where she can feel the warmth of the sun on her weathered face, Sebastian thinks she looks sad and tired and he does not have to wonder why. Ennis has always been all heart, and that is a hard way for a soul to live, constantly caring.

"How is she?" he asks, breaking the silence.

"Asleep now," she tells him. "I drew her a bath, and put new linens on the bed for her, like you asked. Her clothes were filthy, so I've given her one of my old dressing gowns to wear until I can find something more suitable."

Sebastian nods, thoughtful. "If I gave you a few sovereigns for the material, could you procure something more suitable?"

Ennis rises a brow at the question. "A few sovereigns and I could have her rivaling the Queen of Ferelden. I have known you to be generous, Sebastian, but never impractical. I do not need sovereigns where a few silvers will do."

"I only want her to be comfortable," he explains, unsure why he feels the need to defend himself. She may not be able to see, but her scrutiny still makes him feel like a little boy whose been caught playing with his grandfather's bow again. More than that, it makes him wonder why he is going to such lengths for a woman whose company he swore off more than two years ago. "Andraste said that we must –"

"Stop right there," Ennis says, wearily. "Do not think you can hide behind Andraste's skirts with _me_. I know you better than that, Sebastian."

"I do not know what you mean, madam."

"Who is she?"

The question is straightforward, yet he cannot seem to answer it. Who _is_ Priscila Hawke? That is what's on everyone's minds, isn't it? She is a refugee, Ferelden born, and a long ways from home. She is a noblewoman belonging to the house of Amell. And not least of all, she is the Champion of Kirkwall. But those are just descriptions, pointless titles. What was it that Ennis said about titles? A real lady has no need of them, and they certainly have done little good for Hawke.

But as he meets Ennis's unseeing gaze, he knows she is asking for more than a name and history. What she means is, who is she, to _you_? And Sebastian is not sure he knows anymore, if he ever did.

"She is someone from my past," he answers at last. It is probably not the answer Ennis is looking for, but she accepts it. Whatever her suspicions, she keeps them to herself and for that he is grateful.

Her expression falls with a sigh. "Poor thing, what's been done to her."

He does not know the extent of her recent trials, but he knows her crimes. Not the least helping an apostate blow up a chantry. His head fills with the image of the sky bleeding red, and Sebastian wonders if what's been done to her is not a result of what she's done herself. Justice. "Your sympathy may be better served elsewhere, Ennis."

She frowns just like his mother did whenever he misbehaved. "Sebastian Vael," she says, also in the tone his mother would take.

"I know," he stops her, waving off her lecture. "I know."

Sebastian finds himself stooping over the statue of Andraste, although he's not sure what answers he'll find in her golden veneer. He feels spoiled from the inside out, like rotten milk, soured by events in his life outside of his control. There's so much bitterness in him that wasn't there before. Or maybe it was – maybe it has been there since before he joined the Chantry, restrained by hastily made vows. He does not know. He isn't sure. And that is what troubles him the most.

A hand presses his shoulder, firm but understanding. "A prince has many cares." Her voice now reminds him of the Grand Cleric, and he hears Elthina's wisdom in the words. "But he should not let his past be one of them."

"I am still angry," he admits, and the tightness in his chest loosens a little.

"You may be, for some time still and that is all right. But, Sebastian, you cannot let the anger be all that you are." She pokes a finger into his chest. "You still have a heart in there. Do not be afraid to use it!"

- . - . -

Sebastian does not go to see Priscila until late that evening, by which point he has run out of excuses not to.

All day he has agonized over the coming conversation – what she will say, how he will respond, how he _should_ respond. Once, their relationship had seemed so simple. But his life then had been clean lines, black and white. Now it is all shades of grey, bleak and confusing, where right and wrong bleed into one another with alarming frequency and he cannot always distinguish the one from the other.

It troubles him, and Hawke troubles him, but he cannot abandon her now.

He finds her in the garden, wandering the grounds. She is wearing a simple, linen dress that blends in with the midnight blues decorating the hedges. It would be easy to miss her amidst the shadows, and he suspects that is why she's hugging the courtyard walls, where the moonlight cannot reach her. Where, perhaps, no one can reach her, isolating herself both in body and mind. Sebastian feels lonely as he watches her drifting through the rows, a mournful apparition, without purpose. This woman is a far cry from the champion he followed into battle countless times, and he wonders if that woman walked away from that final battle in Kirkwall at all.

Not wanting to intrude, and perhaps not ready to face the ghosts of his past, he turns to leave. However, before he can surrender her to privacy, she takes notice of his presence and prevents his departure.

"Sebastian," she says, emerging from the dark with a small smile. It's clear she wasn't expecting company. As she approaches, she makes an effort to stand a little straighter, walk a little taller. She's putting on a good show, wearing the brave face, but he is not fooled, not after last night. "You can stop lurking now. I don't bite."

He doesn't know how she does that, makes light even in the midst of despair.

Her expression falters. "Please, say something."

"I would not want to disturb you if you'd rather be alone," he tells her.

"Alone," she repeats, and the smile falls from her face altogether to be replaced with a frown. It was a poor choice of words on his part, Sebastian realizes too late, debilitating her good nature like a poison. She sighs heavily, shifting from foot to foot. "No. I don't want to be alone. I just couldn't stand being cooped up in that little room any longer." He didn't notice before from a distance, but she looks fidgety. Flighty even, and he wonders if escape hasn't crossed her mind. "I needed some air."

"If your room is not sufficient –"

"It wasn't commentary on your hospitality, Sebastian," she hastens to explain, for fear of offending him. "And I'd prefer you didn't give me any special treatment."

She makes it sound as though she doesn't deserve any special treatment, and he is not sure he disagrees with that assessment. The thought strikes him as particularly cold-hearted, and his stomach twists in disgust at himself. He tries to remember Ennis' words. He does not want to be unfeeling, but he does not trust his passions to guide him reasonably where Hawke is concerned. Maker give him strength.

"I cannot be indifferent, Priscila," he admits softly, and her eyes widen a little. "I have tried."

Before the moment can turn awkward, she steps forward and places a tentative hand on his arm. It is a small gesture, reminiscent of the years of friendship they once shared. "I want to make things right," she whispers. "Tell me what to do, and I will do it."

"Were it so simple . . ."

"Does it have to be complicated?" Her lips form a strangled smile.

He cannot stand the sight of her, not looking like this – so vulnerable, her emotions exposed and raw. It attacks his heart, and Sebastian looks away. "Elthina is dead, Hawke, as are countless other innocents. You started a war. You and Anders."

Maybe it's the accusation or mention of her former lover, possibly the combination of both, but the great champion comes undone at his words. She steps back, then turns on him, eyes flashing angrily. "Don't," she warns. She makes to leave, but doubles back on him at the last second. "You were there that day, how can you say that? You should know better than anyone I didn't mean for any of this to happen. Andraste as my witness, I had no idea what he was planning.

"And if I could go back . . . if I could do it all over . . . I would stop him. I would fix all of this." Her eyes are reddened by grief, her voice stained with regret. "But I can't. I can't, Sebastian."

His resolve breaks on her sincerity, finally.

"I believe you," he says, after a long silence. She is wary of this admission, keeping her distance, while her heart continues to bleed. It's as if _she_ does not believe _him_. He fills with shame, realizing that he has not given her much of a reason to since she came to him for help. A place to sleep and food to eat is basic charity; he can do better. She deserves better.

He goes to her wordlessly. She stares up at him with silvery eyes, full of tears. "It may not make a difference now," he murmurs, "but I believe you."

"I don't know what I'm doing here," she confesses.

"What do you mean?"

"It's stupid, really. For the past two years, I thought that if I could just do enough good, I could somehow make up for what happened. But the truth is, nothing I ever do will erase Kirkwall and the Gallows. No one will remember me for rescuing a slave or making the streets safe at night. I'll always be the instigator of a civil war. My memory will be covered in blood." She closes her eyes for a moment, takes a shaky breath, and he can see her trying to gain a hold of herself.

She opens them again, and a brokenness is there, a revelation that cuts deep.

"I'll never be the hero of this story, despite Varric's best efforts. I am bound to be the villain, no matter what I do."

"No," he says, searching for the right words to console her. "We are cast only in the roles the Maker would have us in. Our choices determine who and what we are. Even Andraste was tested, her convictions forged in the fires of conflict."

A faint smile touches her lips. "I wish I had your faith, Sebastian."

"Maybe one day, you will."

"Until then, I suppose you'll just have to have faith enough for the both of us, won't you?" And she touches the side of his face like she used to, and he remembers loving her like he used to. His hand folds over hers. Sebastian cannot know why she's been brought back into his life, but is grateful for the opportunity to make amends. This time, unlike his rebirth in the chantry, he will not squander his second chance.


End file.
